The Good People
by awaylaughing
Summary: England has a conversation with the Fair Folk and Canada makes inappropriately named muffins. Human names, fluff and the aforementioned inappropriately named muffins. Also, the Fair Folk are mean.


Title: The Good People taken from the phrase 'daoine maite' (very roughly dee-n mawit), another name for the traditional fae of the British Isles.

Pairing: Eng/Can, or possibly Can/Eng, who knows.

Warnings: Fluff and minor bodily harm to a nation.

Authors Notes: This is NOT from the meme, surprise surprise, though it was an attempt at a fill, it veered so completely from the request I won't even mention it further. Enjoy, and reviews are appreciated but not mandatory.

Disclaimer: I do not, in any form, own Hetalia or any of the copyrighted material which can be found in this piece. No copyright infringement is intended.

xXxXx

The sun flitted across the sheets, dappled from traveling through the leaves of a young elm outside the window. Arthur leaned against his head board, lazily watching the younger nation cuddled into his side. The older nation watched in wary amusement as a few of his faeries gently inspected the North American.

One, the Queen as it were, carefully stroked Matthew's eyebrow, her eyes bright with delight. "You should give him to us Albion," she advised him solemnly, her subjects nodding and giggling in amusement. Arthur shook his head, messy blond hair shaking a little as he did so.

"He's hardly mine to give away," he told her gently but firmly, "and even if he was, I'd rather keep him." The fae all pout at him, come twining in his hair, others in Matthew's.

"But we'd take such good care of him," the queen promised, batting tiny eyelashes at him, grinning coyly. "You could come see him whenever you wanted and he'd be beautiful and lovely and happy and he would never, ever leave you," he cooed, small hands splayed across England's far larger cheek.

Arthur shook his head, firmer this time, and he held back a wince when suddenly much sharper fingernails dug into his cheek. "No," he told them, ignoring the tiny pinpricks, "absolutely not, if Matthew wants to leave, he will, and there is nothing to be done about it." The faeries growled at them, no longer glowing, their annoyance mounting, tiny faces twisting into snarls. They all whizzed about, preparing to leave and one managed to yank a few strands of Arthur's hair. With a swiftness belied by his frumpy exterior the Brit caught the small offender in his hand. "Give them up," he told the little man shaped being. Grudgingly the blue tinged creature handed over the short blond strands and Arthur let him go, watching it flee through the open window.

Sighing, the Brit leaned back against the bed, closing his eyes. They stayed closed until he felt Matthew shift, and he opened them to the sight of Matthew peering blurrily at him, yawning as he blinked sleep from his violet eyes.

"Sleep well?" He asked, sitting up. Arthur nodded, watching, with no small amount of appreciation, as pale skin and muscles stretched and trembled. Matthew smiled, bright and honest if not a little drowsy, and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. Matthew's lips collided gently with the smooth skin and he pulled back, frowning a little. "Arthur," he murmured, long fingers coming up to brush the cheek.

Arthur winced as pressure was applied to the minuscule cuts and wished he hadn't. "It's fine love," he assured the younger nation, patting his hand, "must have nicked it on something while I was sleeping." The look in those expressive eyes told Arthur Matthew wasn't buying it, but Matthew had the good sense not to push the issue.

"If you say so," he said quietly, pulling away and standing, stretching a little more. Arthur stood with him, rolling his shoulders to loosen some kinks, watching Matthew sleepily pull on his red hoodie, delighting in the fact that the shapeless form fell past his waistline. "Hungry?" The Canadian asked, heading downstairs. Arthur nodded, before realizing Matthew had no way of seeing him.

"Yes, quite," the ex-nation admitted, calling down as he dressed. Matthew made a noise of acknowledgement and Arthur finished dressing before he headed downstairs. Matthew was at the counter, face screwed up in concentration as he whisked together several liquids.

"You don't have any mangoes," the taller nation said, almost in a chiding manner and Arthur grinned as he ran the water, reaching for the kettle.

"I'm terribly sorry dear," he said wryly, "dare I ask what you have planned?" Matthew chuckled, dumping part of his set aside flour mixture into the egg and milk solution.

"I was going to make blueberry-mango muffins," he said tartly, though the teasing tone was easy to hear, "but you have no mangoes, so morning glory muffins it is." Arthur snorted, seating himself at the table as he waited for the water to boil. Matthew turned to grin at him, taking his clothes into account. "I though we were gardening today?" He said in manner that acted more like a question than a statement. Arthur schooled his features to keep back his wince.

"I reconsidered," he said finally, "I think we'll go grocery shopping."

Matthew nodded, adding the rest of the flour as well as what appeared to be shredded apple and carrots, raisins, coconut and possibly walnuts. "Well," the Canadian said, "you are out of mangoes."


End file.
